The bleak grasses across the fog and the morning waved with each blade with each breeze and shook last night's heavy rain. Pushing a foamy wooden box through the wet and dulled green, a bearded, weathered male individual in black hoodlum dinner suit guise made his merry way up to the summit of a hill. A crackle and perhaps a burst indicated the onslaught of rain which fell in attractive pummels that were occasionally spotlighted by shards of lightning. 'Neath his grisly and grimly white beard, the man gritted his remaining teeth to the elements and continued his pained path up the high horrid slope.
As the pre-midday slump of 8.00 AM whistled and resonated from a distant, empty chapel, the determined shaking mass of weary world flesh found himself with sudden ease atop the hill. And from this very vantage point he was shown a deliberately snaking landscape of rivers and trees that wallowed in the important wake of a city. He raised two arms high in the air, as if expecting the fellow beard to strike his wailing form with an empowering bolt, and let out a side street cry. When his lungs finally pulled the vocal chords from their twisted sockets under the strain, he relaxed himself and closed his lids. Envisaging a host of society's all, he began to speak.
"People of Earth," he began promisingly, "I am here to help. Over the years I have observed your poverty, your wars, your murders, your prisons and your especially wretched architecture. I have seen the coming and going of the young and the old; I have seen what there is to see. And only now can I offer salvation: submit to me and your troubles will be no more."
He opened his eyes hopefully and looked.
"Well," he said quietly, "it was worth a shot."
He sighed and began to dig himself a grave.
The Drums of My Inner Shelf
Being a thoughtful account of the human condition as told from the perspective of one suffering from it.
What, if anything at all—though it's not perfect by any means, which in a way proves there's something wrong with it—though you have to take into account my credibility, which, under the best circumstances, doesn't exist—and, if it does, it would certainly be struggling for life on a rocky shore somewhere, and I'd be forced to march along with my gun (which I had to buy specially for the occasion—in any other circumstances I would avoid such harmful devices—no matter how well-polished) and tastefully blast it away, thus ridding me of, oddly enough, the only feature that one could possibly compliment me on (I do hate compliments, you see; you can never tell if they're really being sincere or not); so, in essence, I'm left as a free citizen, with no encroachments on my personal space (everyone usually crosses to the other side of the road when they see me) and, even on the off-chance that I do find my way into a conversation of sorts, the person in question—enacting the other half of the exchange—would be entirely lost for words and would eventually be forced to bid adieu and run amuck with the rest of the folks—you know how it is; I'd then retire to my empty carriage and puff a few notes out of the old trumpet (C, D and E, to be precise) and lapse into beautiful obscurity, is wrong with life?
The Onward Roll of Sport, Booze and Karaoke
Here lies Stephan.
The months, the years of Queen and Bowie mouthings in sweaty, after-work clubs frequented by suits 'tween birth and death; the countless nights in the company of pale white Russians—sometimes black—and yellow and green chartreuse soldiers staring out to sea; the chrome plating of show-reel wheelers that held his eyes and the low resolution snapping of a flick-top mobile; the lust for the South; the pounds of impeccable pastries crafted with an artist's eye in two cross-town kitchens: these were his downfall; the pace couldn't be kept, and eventually, one day, he just let slip and lay dead—out on the tiles of a favourite—and was dragged by countrymen to the cemetery where now he lies under the epitaph:
It's true that honesty seems to always fail.
Hugh's out of Home Adventures
"I have come to the conclusion," said he, "that you need to cultivate more outside experiences; leave the house once in while. As a direct result, you shall become a better person—like me, perhaps."
I nodded dumbly.
"How can you possibly know anything when you're holed up like this?" he continued.
"Mmm," I admitted.
"Well, I've got things to do. Bye."
He picked himself carefully from the chair and bade farewell.
So off I went on my journey to self-improvement. By train, I found myself at the station we had discussed and decided upon. I was uncharacteristically late by about three minutes, but was happy to discover I wasn't the only one. No one was there as yet. I spent my time observing.
A dumpling nestled into a corner; groups of black-lipped, black-dyed, black-clothed; groups of giggles; groups of peers; a woman dressed in shades of brown; police with tempting holsters; no one I knew.
After the half hour was hit, I was among the remainders. No longer was it a place to meet. I left. The train which would serve me best was scheduled to arrive in half an hour, so I decided to continue my waiting until then. And I did, making my entire patience reach an hour in length.
I wish I could get out more often.
My Love She's Bold as Buttons
A someone in a top-hat—I'll assume it's a man—is walking down that street dressed smartly in what looks like a nice clean white shirt and rich black pants. He's holding a suitcase or something; I can't quite make it out. Now he's stopped outside a café. He's looking in the window at something. Now he's going in. He's in. I can't see him anymore. There is a small cat outside near a bin. It's fairly sunny. Now he's out of the store holding a cup or something. Yes, it's a cup; he's drinking out of it. He's still walking down the busy street. He just disappeared behind a building. I may have lost him. No, wait, there he is —I think. He's got the same clothes. I'll just assume it's him. If not, it's a big coincidence that after he disappeared behind a building, another man dressed in the same clothes, holding the same objects comes out the other side of the building. Whoops, I've lost him again. I should have been watching.
I guess now I should talk about the man himself. I really don't know much about him, so I'll have to invent some stuff. Um... All right, well, I'll say he owns a chain of antique stores across the city, and right now he's on his way to an antique convention to buy some things. He's depressed because his wife's just passed away from Polio—wait, they got rid of that, didn't they? Um, make it pneumonia. Anyway, he feels he needs to keep buying antiques to get his mind off things. Wait, is that him? Yes, I think so. Now he's in a park by the river. He's still got a cup and a suitcase. Now he's talking to a woman and getting into a row boat. They're kissing. That kind of contradicts what I said before—though it's not necessarily his wife. They're too far out to see now. Hey, I could have also said, "they're too far out to sea now" and it wouldn't have made much difference.
All right, scrap what I said before about him. Let's say he's a disillusioned employee of a business firm and he's just quit his job to spend more time with his wife. He hasn't told her yet, though, so he's taking her on a romantic trip on the river to break the news. He's got it all figured out. If they spend money wisely and invest in the right places, they may be able to retire. But he's not sure how his wife will like it. Hang on, I think I see them again. They're coming around from the other side. Wait, no, that's not them. Never mind. Actually, let's say he's taking his wife out to a special place on the river where a vortex tunnel thing swirls on a little island at twilight. An outdoor, tent-less circus is around there too, and so is a strange band comprised of people wearing green, pink, blue and red uniforms. He wants to lead his wife into the vortex so they can live together in some sort of nowhere.
There they are. I guess they didn't go into the vortex after all. And they're still kissing. Even as they're climbing out of the boat, they're kissing. But they've stopped now and they're walking towards a boathouse/café type thing. They go up the stairs and onto the top level. Now they're searching for a table. Still searching. They find one near the end and sit down. Now a waiter comes along and takes their order. I didn't hear what it was, just in case you were wondering. The waiter goes away and they start talking. I can't hear that, either. But they certainly look like they they're enjoying themselves. Still talking. Now he picks up his suitcase and opens it on the table. He takes out a photo or a painting and shows it to her. She looks very happy and she hugs and kisses him. He then puts the painting/photo back into the suitcase and puts the suitcase back underneath the table. They keep talking. Now the waiter is there with their order and he puts it on the table. They thank the waiter and start eating.
Now they're back by the river. I skipped the bit where they paid for the meal and left the café. They're getting back into the boat and they're kissing again. Still kissing. Now they're rowing off down the river—again. Perhaps this time he'll take her to the vortex thing on that island with the circus and the band. It is actually twilight now, so it'd make sense. Well, that's all I wanted to say. Goodbye.
Rivers of Slime
Near the post office, the following occurred:
"How's the wife?" asked Mr Rows with a friendly grin.
"She's abroad," replied Jelly.
"I know. That's why I said 'wife'."
Untangling himself from that encounter, and brimming with verve, Jelly made his way through the next ten years of his life and onto a bridge over an ice frosted lake. Coffee in hand and thoughts in mind, he spent a jolly half hour in the winter cold with a look of abstract happiness on his face.
Upon returning home, he was startled to discover—by way of an answering machine—that his friend had decided to commit suicide out on the mainline. He was then saddened to discover—by way of a second message—that his friend had succeeded in committing suicide out on the mainline.
He lost his wife abroad, too. She wasn't actually dead, as far as he knew, but she was certainly missing—or, at the very least, she had left him for good. So he boiled an egg. Once he deduced it to be ready, he removed it, cracked it open and carefully placed it on his recently purchased egg cup. With the help of long, thin, remotely soldier-shaped pieces of toast, Jelly polished off his meal in no time. Well, that's an exaggeration—he actually took around ten minutes.
Some time later, he found himself huddling 'neath shelter in the rain. It wasn't exactly freezing, so he enjoyed himself and continued shopping. A nice lunch was had soon after.
The next day, Mr Rows stopped him.
"Did you ring that couple?" he asked.
"They were engaged," answered Jelly.
"But they've only known each other for a few weeks! Drat, now I'll have to order that blasted Russian."
"No, I meant I couldn't get through. I'll ring tonight."
He lay down that night with the lights off and listened to Bucket Men on vinyl. After that he read a few chapters of Betweenways by Benjamin Hansen and went to bed.
You can guess the rest.
What's up with Boy Wonder?
Nothing, it turns out.